


Signature for Delivery

by chaya



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaya/pseuds/chaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt: Bucky is a delivery man, and a sickly housebound Steve starts online shopping beyond his wallet to see him. Written as a one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sorry to bother you." Bucky is already holding out the digital signature pad before he gets a good look at the guy - even with the door only open a crack he can see the guy's sort of surprisingly... pretty? He's a head shorter, thin, but there's something about the flash of ribs underneath the robe that makes Bucky's mouth go dry. "You've gotta sign for this."

"What?" The man frowns, then his eyebrows fly up. "Right, sorry. Um, someone in the neighborhood's been taking stuff off of people's porches." He takes the stylus and scribbles something down, taking the padded envelope. When Bucky checks it, his name's not only legible, but  _pretty_.

"Nice," he compliments. "Most people can't get this to work, they just do a squiggle."

"I've got a shitty tablet," the man -  _Steven Rogers_ , his signature reads - says. Then, seeming to realize that's confusing, he adds: "A drawing tablet. You use a stylus to draw."

"I gotcha," Bucky says, and considers mentioning the semester of digital art he took before deciding that would be over-sharing. It's hard to remember what's professional right now. This guy's voice is really gorgeous. "Um, have a great day."

**

Next week it's a bigger package, and, in a somewhat disappointing turn of events for Bucky, "Steven" has remembered to wrap his robe more tightly before answering the door.

"Morning," Bucky says, holding out the signature pad again. "New tablet?"

"What? Oh, no, I don't-" Steven laughs hollowly. "My, um, my art doesn't make enough for me to upgrade my hardware."

Bucky frowns. He checks the signature pad when Steve's done, more out of formality than anything else, and tucks it under his left arm. (It's not great for much, but it can do that at least.) "What kind of art?"

Steven's face shifts into panic. "It's," he says, and his ears go weirdly pink. "It's commissions. Whatever, I mean, whatever pays."

"Gotta make a living," Bucky says mildly, feeling like he maybe just fucked up. "Have a great day."

"You too." Steven's voice is kind of strangled as he shuts the door.

**

Steven Rogers is a really common name. Combine the fact that it might be  _super creepy_ of Bucky to try to poke into the personal life of someone on his route, and he manages to keep himself from looking it up.

"Found him," Nat says almost instantly, scrolling on her phone's screen.

Bucky sits up straighter in the booth. "What!?"

"Steve Rogers. Native Brooklyn Artist." Natasha is still scrolling, her expression infuriatingly neutral. When he reaches for her phone, she leans away. "I mean, it's possible there's another Steve or Steven Rogers in Brooklyn who does digital art. Not like we're short on artists."

"What's he  _draw?_ " Bucky asks, trying to reach again. Natasha just leans again. She's too fucking fast.

"I'll tell you when you tell me why you've mentioned him twice in two weeks," Natasha replies. "You never talk about work. Nothing ever happens - you say it yourself."

Bucky offers her a rude gesture and slumps in his seat, waiting until their food comes.

**

Steve's wearing a baggy sweater this time, and maddeningly, he's not wearing anything underneath it. His collarbones jut out in clear definition as he leans forward to sign the pad.

"The package?"

Bucky blinks. "What?" He realizes he hasn't given it over yet. "Oh, it's." He tucks the signature pad under his arm and kneels down to pick up the box, offering it to Steven. To Steve. "It's kind of heavy, you sure you got it?"

Instantly, Steve shoots him an absolutely  _murderous_  look as he takes it from Bucky's hands, using his foot to hook the door and begin to close it.

"Thank you," Steve says coldly, and Bucky feels his stomach turn as the door shuts in his face.

**

He feels shitty, but he looks anyway.

Steve's 'Commissions' tab shows a stunning... a theme, it's definitely a theme. The pin-up style is in full effect, with rosy colors and coy poses, and the men in them are well-toned and often have dog tags or BDUs. Bucky gets to the one of a blond sprawling on rumpled bed-sheets, his Army uniform puddled on the floor nearby, and nearly drops his phone.

He closes the window and shuts his eyes, wondering why the fuck he was so stupid.

**

It's pouring rain the next week. Bucky bags the box before hopping out of his truck, dashing around it and up to Steve's door. He knocks, wordlessly holds out the signature pad, and is about to hand over the bag when the pad slips from between his arm his ribs. It clatters onto the cement steps, making a distinct breaking noise as Bucky curses under his breath.

"Fff- I'm sorry," Bucky says, somewhat pointlessly, "I, um, enjoy your - have a nice -"

"I can fix it," Steve says suddenly, and Bucky blinks at him.

Steve blinks back, possibly a little surprised by his own outburst. "I mean, it looks..." He looks up at the sky a moment before stepping into the rain, kneeling down and picking up the pieces. "The screen just came loose." Another baggy sweater, and flannel pajama pants that look worn thin to the point of being tissue paper. They start blotching from raindrops in a matter of seconds.

"You don't have to," Bucky says awkwardly, but Steve's already standing up. (Gingerly, as if this is a process that requires some concentration. Maybe it is.)

"You can - do you want to come in?" Steve asks, and in something like a daze, Bucky follows him in, stopping short on the rug by the door and watching Steve as he fiddles with the pieces and wanders toward a door that might lead to an office. He knocks.

"Anthony," he calls out sharply. " _Anthony_ , wake up."

Bucky shuts the door behind him to keep the rain from coming in, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking down at his feet. When Steven turns and raps on the door again, Bucky sneaks a peek, and the house is - it's interesting. There's a desk in the corner with magazine cutouts pinned on a corkboard nearby. Half is covered in flowers and vases and a miscellaneous collection of portraits. The other half is covered more in... in what he saw from the commissions. Gorgeous men in states of undress. References of guns and uniforms.

He's startled out of his examination when the interior door opens. The man, Anthony, is unshaven, dark-haired, and medium height, with circles under his eyes. "What," he says, and then, more quickly, "What. What. What what what."

Steve shoves the pieces of the signature pad into his hands. "Fix this," he more or less orders.

Anthony looks at them and then up at Steve. "Where'd you get this?"

"It shouldn't be too different from fixing my Wacom. He just dropped it, is all."

Anthony blinks at Steve and then finally notices Bucky, who looks away in embarrassment. "He another model?" Anthony asks, and is suddenly silenced by a look from Steve. "Jeez. Whatever. This is... yeah, give me a minute." Anthony shuts the door, disappearing with the pieces, leaving Bucky alone with Steve.

Steve is apparently somewhat mortified by the models comment, because he's not looking at Bucky now, staring in the direction of the kitchen. "D'you want tea?"

"You don't have to," Bucky says.

"It's fine. I'm gonna, um." Steve walks over, presumably to make some for himself, at least. Bucky notices the way his bare feet pad carefully against the hardwood floor, as if there's some difficulty to it. "Anthony's an idiot," Steve says, as something like an explanation.

"If he can fix it, though, that'd be... really helpful," Bucky says. "Thanks."

"No problem." Steve swallows, pressing a button on something that looks like a kettle. The kettle beeps and starts doing something. "So last Thursday, I - I mean, you were just trying to be helpful."

"I'm really sorry," Bucky says, maybe too quickly.

"No, don't..." Steve makes a face and waves it away, clearly struggling with something. "I just. I don't need help."

"Okay."

"Good." Steve nods, taking a deep breath, and begins setting up two mugs. When the kettle finally beeps, he takes it off of the hotplate thing it's sitting on and pours water in both the cups, putting a tea bag in each. He hands one to Bucky.

"Thanks." Bucky takes the mug and curls his good hand around it, soaking up some of the warmth. He wonders how long it'll take to fix the tablet, sort of hoping for 'now' and sort of hoping for 'several hours' all at once.

Steve catches him looking at Anthony's door. "He's my roommate," he blurts out, tone strange.

"Right," Bucky says, unsure of the meaning. "You... both live here."

Maybe he meant they weren't together. Maybe he was worried Bucky would get the wrong idea about him.

Bucky thinks back to the drawings of the men lounging against couches, smiling, biting their lips as they leaned forward toward the viewer.

"Done," Anthony shouts flatly, saving Bucky from what might be the worst-timed boner in history. He opens the door and unceremoniously sticks it out to Bucky, who takes it with his left hand since his right is still holding the mug. "What model?"

Bucky frowns, looking at the side of the signature pad. "It says-"

"No, no, your  _arm_. What model."

Bucky freezes. Steve is looking at Anthony with a mixture of confusion and irritation, as if perhaps Anthony is a blight on his existence and is making this even more known for daring to ask stupid questions, and maybe that means he won't notice the way the color's draining out of Bucky's face.

"He's  _not a model_ ," Steve snaps, gesturing to Bucky and presumably his uniform, but Tony just rolls his eyes and, in a too-fast move that Bucky was not prepared for, sits down at the other chair and starts rolling up Bucky's left shirt sleeve to see for himself.

"I mean, the weird jerk when you fully extended at the elbow makes me think it was a-"

Bucky makes himself get up, putting the mug of tea down very solidly on the table and then gripping the signature pad with his good hand. "Thanks," he says, and then walks out the front door, to his truck, to his next stop, where he stops and puts it in park and then stares forward at nothing for a solid three minutes.

**

"What aren't you telling me?" Natasha asks, several days later.

"Nothing," Bucky lies, and chases the last of the ketchup down with the french fry he doesn't even really want.

**

Steve doesn't order anything for a week and a half, which is sort of a relief. But then  _Anthony Stark_  gets a huge box, and it's to Steve's address, and something clicks in Bucky's brain, because  _Stark_  was on the side of every building he visited to get his prototype.

**

Bucky knocks on the door and Anthony answers it.

"Hi," he says flatly, as if reciting something written by someone else and not entirely approved by him. "I'm sorry, James, for invading your personal space earlier. It was rude of me and I had no right to do it."

This wasn't something Bucky had prepared for on the way here. He just nods, holding out the signature pad, and Tony takes it and scribbles out something that looks nothing like either  _Anthony_  nor  _Stark_.

"Is insurance giving you shit?"

Bucky blinks. "I'm sorry?"

Tony hands the pad back, looking over his shoulder as if concerned about further Steve-related wrath before leaning in a little. "Stark Industries doesn't have any control over it," he says, sounding annoyed. "They made sure to make those fuckers affordable so people like you could get them, but then the regular maintenance fees are usually copay out the ass, and you're stuck with a fucking piece of art strapped to your torso but you can't afford the oil change. If you ever need a tune-up, I can take a look at it."

"You work for your..." Bucky fumbles for the right word. "Un...cle?"

"For my  _dad_ ," Tony corrects darkly. "And no, not anymore. But I could still fix it." He glances over Bucky's shoulder. "That's the new desk chair, where's the monitor?"

"Only one box today, sir," Bucky says apologetically.

"Whatever, it'll come." Tony opens the door wider so Bucky can get it inside.

**

The 'Original Artwork' tab on the webpage is completely different from the commissions. A little girl with intricate braids sits on a bench, legs kicking out and frowning at something off into the distance. An old man hunches over a chess board. A pigeon pecks at crumbs outside a diner.

Bucky saves some to his phone without really knowing why.

**

"I think this is the monitor," Bucky says, handing the box over to Anthony before bothering with the signature. "It's either that or a flat screen TV."

"The response time and refresh rate would be a little lacking," Anthony mutters under his breath, disappearing a moment to put the box somewhere before coming back and picking up the stylus to sign. "I'd have gotten some new speakers to go with this, but Steve already says I'm too loud." He rolls his eyes. "Would've started bitching as soon as he came back and saw 'em."

"He's out?"

Tony looks up at him like he said something either very stupid or very unexpected. Maybe both. "He's at the hospital, but it's nothing major this time."

Bucky blinks. "What?"

"He's always got something. I don't know the laundry list offhand, but I know he can never seem to find an asthma medication that doesn't fuck with the other thing he's on, and it's a whole..." He makes a circling motion with his hand. "Anyway, next time you see him, tell him you're not upset, please, because he's been death glaring me even more than usual and it's starting to make me wonder if he's going to poison my food."

Bucky is not aware of any correct way to respond to this. "Okay," he says finally, and is grateful when Anthony nods and shuts the door.

**

"Morning," Bucky says, holding out the signature pad. Steve smiles awkwardly and picks up the stylus. "Um, I hope you're doin' better."

Steve looks up, surprised, then mumbles something inaudible and scribbles his name down.

"IS THAT JAMES?" Anthony calls from somewhere in the house.

Steve visibly suppresses a growl. " _Yes_ ," he calls.

"JAMES, STEVE IS HAVING AN EXHIBITION NEXT MONTH."

Steve's eyes widen considerably. He appears to be somewhat frozen in place.

"AT THE GALLERY AT BOSE PACIA. OF HIS PERSONAL STUFF, NOT THE SOFT CORE STUFF."

Steve, still motionless, turns an interesting shade of red.

"YOU SHOULD GO."

Bucky processes this for a second, finally pulling the box from under his arm and handing it over.

"I'm so sorry," Steve hisses, looking like he wants to die.

"When, um, when. What." Bucky breathes. "What time is it happening?"

**

**

A few weeks later, Natasha is scrolling through her phone when her eyebrows rise up and her thumb stops.

"Bucky," she says.

"Yes," he says around a mouthful of eggs.

"Former Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

"Present," he says, chewing.

"I'm looking through an online gallery right now and I am looking at a blue-eyed brunet lounging on a bed."

"Sounds nice," Bucky remarks.

"He has your thighs."

"I thought the face is a good likeness, too," Bucky adds. "For a first try, I mean."

" _Bucky_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to stoatsandwich for the betaing and the cheerleading. <3

Anthony walks through the living room, stopping to look at the two of them draped across each other on the couch.

"Either stop being so gross or invite me into the pile."

Steve points at him, not looking away from Top Chef. "Put a dollar in the jar right now."

"I wasn't-"

"Dollar. Jar."

Anthony mutters something under his breath and walks to the end table, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and stuffing something into a brightly decorated jar that Bucky hadn't noticed before.

**

When Steve goes to the bathroom, Bucky gets up and walks to the end table, examining the jar. It reads PLAYING GAY CHICKEN in large, cursive letters.

**

**

"I always meant to ask." Bucky turns the mug around in his hands, cupping it gently. "What do you... I mean, what do you think of Steve's artwork?"

Anthony leans back, eyebrow arched. "It's good," he says, like he doesn't know what else the answer could be. "I mean, I slept through most of my art classes in college, but the proportions are right and they look like real people. He's not wildly successful but the right critics think he's good. I brag about knowing him to my gay friends. I mean, my other gay friends. Not trying to imply that you aren't my friend. Or that you aren't gay."

Bucky makes a concerted effort to process all this. "So it... it doesn't bother you," he surmises.

"What, the gay part? Why would I give a shit? I mean," He works his jaw. "I guess if he kept drawing scruffy dark-haired guys getting impaled on spears or something, I'd have reason to care what kind of stuff he drew, might start looking for a new place to live, but, I mean,  _drawing guys_. Gay for guys. Who cares."

"Cool," Bucky says, and takes a long sip of the tea Steve made him that he can't quite pronounce. "That's really cool."

Anthony's eyes narrow. "Is this an Army thing? You're all cautious about people knowing stuff?" When Bucky looks away and doesn't really respond, Anthony continues. "Let's be honest. I'm slightly too brilliant to fall into that logical fallacy of 'all gay men must want me, and they will jump me the second I turn around' bullshit." Anthony takes a long slurp of his coffee and sets it down on the island. "Besides, you've seen Steve, he makes a finely-honed point of making sure I know he can hardly look at me without wanting to punch me in the face."

Bucky wants to tell him that Steve  _doesn't_  want to punch him in the face, but to be honest, he's not sure that's true. Steve seems eternally fed up with his roommate and for all their time together, Bucky's never found the right time to ask him exactly why that is. Anthony can be blunt, maybe a little abrasive, but... so can Steve. And Bucky knows for a fact that when Steve's had extended hospital stays, Anthony has routinely watered the plants in Steve's window box. It's one of the few things Steve will admit that Anthony has done right.

Bucky doesn't know exactly what to say, so he doesn't say anything.

**

**

Anthony's quirk doesn't come up until Steve's friend Sam comes over and suggests that they all go out for sushi - Steve pulls out his old tablet and starts looking it up on the map, swatting away Bucky's attempts to help by pulling up a cab number on his phone.

"We can't use that," Steve says matter-of-factly, and Bucky's so used to random and unquestionable limitations that he puts his phone away before wondering why.

Anthony doesn't take cabs. He doesn't get in cars at all. He walks and sometimes takes the subway. Steve tells Bucky this by text as they wait for Anthony and Sam to get their shoes. Bucky looks at his phone and frowns, not understanding, but accepting it anyway. It's not his business.

**

Sam turns out to be nice. He makes Steve laugh and smile, and so Bucky decides that Sam is important, very important, and before he realizes it Bucky is smiling a little too.

**

**

"It makes sense," Natasha says over coffee one day, and rolls her eyes when Bucky gives her a questioning look. "Howard Stark and his wife died in a car crash when Anthony would have been... I don't know. Very young. And then Anthony's armored vehicle hit an IED when he was in Afghanistan."

"Anthony was in  _Afghanistan?_ "

"As a government contractor, yes. He wasn't old enough to run the company yet but he was trying to make a name for himself promoting the tech." Natasha sips her latte. "A lot of money went into keeping that as quiet as possible."

"So how do  _you_  know about it?"

"This is why I was in Intelligence and you weren't."

Bucky frowns, mulling over this new information. "He never talks about any of that," he says finally.

"You have a whole house full of people not talking about what's wrong with them," Natasha remarks. "No wonder you like it over there. You feel at home."

**

**

"How are you feeling about your range of emotions lately?"

"I've got hope back," Bucky says, noticing Dr. Banner smile as he scribbles something down in his notebook. "I mean, it wasn't... I think I was kind of in shock for the first week or so of the relationship. But now I feel comfortable looking forward and, you know, hoping that it'll keep going well. And not..."

"Not expecting it to immediately fail," Dr. Banner provides kindly.

Bucky nods looks down at the floor, fingers laced together. "He knew about, um, about about my arm because of the thing with his roommate, but I still, you know, it wasn't until he saw the whole thing and we kept, um... we kept going... that I really let myself believe he was okay with it."

"Has that made  _you_  more okay with your prosthetic?"

Bucky swallows. "I don't know," he says evasively.

"It's okay not to know." Dr. Banner leans back. "You've previously said that you had trouble looking forward."

"...Yes."

"Now that you can envision a future with this young man, do you feel you can envision your future in general, too? Not just in this budding relationship, but your work life? Your healing process?"

Something rattles inside him. "I dunno." He unlaces his fingers and he looks down at his right hand. His good hand. "I'm just. I'm happy to be dealing with daily stuff well. Right now."

"That's a very important step."

**

**

Steve is pushy in bed. It's little things at first, but it seems like as soon as Steve is sure he's learned Bucky's boundaries about his arm - not involving it any more than it needs to be involved, not kissing it, or stroking it, never lingering on the scars near it - then Steve becomes more himself. 'Himself' turns out to be the kind of guy who shoves Bucky down on the tiny twin bed in his room and crawls on top, kissing him breathless, grinding down on him until Bucky's panting for it and feeling a little lightheaded.

"Need a break?" Steve asks, because he's starting to learn the signs of when Bucky gets too worked up too fast, when lust shifts into general panic.

"No break," Bucky says, almost begging. He moves his hands from Steve's shoulders to his ass, gripping it and pulling him closer. They haven't fucked yet, but this, this is more than good enough for now. Through the thin fabric of their boxers Bucky can feel the wet patch from Steve's precome.

Steve makes a grateful sound and drags his nails across Bucky's nipple, making him shiver.

**

**

Steve doesn't really talk about what's wrong with him, and Bucky understands that. Steve gets defensive about it sometimes, his mouth pressing into a thin line of determination when he's stood up too fast and made himself dizzy, brows coming together and scowling as he pants if they've taken on too many city blocks in one go.

Bucky just waits it out. If Steve wanted help, he'd say something, or at least stop looking as thorny as possible in those moments. Bucky lets himself be distracted by a print on the wall, or by the dog on the other side of the street, waiting for Steve to find his balance or catch his breath or whatever he needs to do to be okay. It takes a few weeks but Steve finally stops looking so mad when it happens, like he's finally learned he doesn't need to get angry in advance for some coddling that isn't actually going to happen.

Bucky remembers when he had his first prosthetic - the looks of sympathy and people holding doors for him like he was an invalid. He remembers that anger. It's long gone, but he still understands it with every fiber of his being.

**

**

One day, when Bucky's good hand is taken up with the takeout bag, Steve switches to his other side and looks down.

"I wanna hold your hand," Steve says, and Bucky looks at him, considering. It takes a few steps.

"So hold it already," Bucky replies finally. "I'm not getting any cuter."

Bucky can't feel the soft warmth of Steve's fingers, but when he concentrates on squeezing his hand, ever so gently, there's a resistance there. Like Steve's already doing it.


	3. Chapter 3

They're moving Steve's old armchair downstairs to the curb when Bucky's arm makes a sudden noise that's somewhere between a crunch and a creak. Steve, who's stubbornly insisted on taking the other end of the chair, stares at him in alarm, but Bucky just grits his teeth and finishes the trip down the stairs. Stands up slowly, massaging his left bicep and flicking his wrist back and forth until it whirrs and starts to recalibrate.

"Does it," Steve says, unsure for once, "do that often?"

"It's fine." Bucky looks down at his feet, then at the chair. "When's the new chair coming?"

"Tuesday." Steve's still frowning, eyes sad and hesitant, and Bucky learns in the span of a few seconds that he can't stand that face. "I, I know I call Anthony an idiot all the time, but-"

"I'm fine."

Steve frowns. "Buck."

"I am."

" _Buck_."

"...I'll think about it."

**

**

It's hard. It's one of the harder things Bucky's had to do since he got out of physical therapy. But he looks at his bank account again, and the co-pay for an unscheduled recalibration visit, and he tells himself that he needs to do this. His shoulder's been hurting for too long and the glitches have only been getting worse.

"Anthony," Bucky says one afternoon, when Steve is sleeping off a migraine upstairs and Bucky is killing time on the couch. Anthony looks up from his laptop.

"James," Anthony echoes, because he is always trying to be clever.

Bucky loses his place in his planned speech. "If you had time," he starts, and then sits up a little straighter, looking down at his lap, feeling a weird kind of panic rise up in his throat. "I mean, you don't owe me anything, I just, I was hoping. I'd be really grateful, if."

Anthony's face does something hopeful and strange, then clicks into something less strange. "Is this an arm thing?"

"Yes," Bucky says gratefully.

"Because Steve told me I'm never allowed to bug you about your arm."

"You're not bugging. I'm, um, I'm asking, if that's okay."

Anthony does the thing where he holds up his finger, then finishes up whatever he was doing on his laptop. It involves several paragraphs typed up in the span of a few seconds, and then a click, and then a few moments of squinting. "Okay. Done. You meant now, right? We can do it now?"

Bucky's eyebrows rise. "I - sure."

"Cool. Come on, all my tools are in my room." Anthony gets up and beckons him over to the study-turned-bedroom, and for the first time Bucky sees the barely-controlled chaos that is his personal space. Tool kits are stacked upon tool kits, and several plates with crumbs make a knee-high column by the door. Bucky fights the urge to pick up the stack and just carry it to the kitchen, which is only next door.

"How long've you had it?" Anthony asks.

"A year and a half? I think?" Bucky shuts the door behind him and sits in the computer chair that Anthony points to, putting his hands in his lap. There's so much  _stuff_  crammed in here. And so much of it looks expensive. Not for the first time, Bucky wonders what Anthony's doing in this place. "And a Hammer model before that, for about eight months."

Anthony makes a disgusted noise.

"Yeah, it, um, it wasn't great."

"Well, just sit tight and..." Anthony looks up from unpacking several tools straight onto the surface of his bed. "Dude, take your shirt off. I'm literally a doctor. I mean, not a medical one, but I have doctorates. Point is, I need to see the thing."

Bucky makes an apologetic noise and, after a couple seconds of mentally coaching himself, pulls it off with his good hand. He folds it delicately and sets it on the armrest. When he looks up Anthony's looking at him with a surprised expression.

"The scarring. I know."

Anthony is staring, he realizes, at his abdomen, but finally he makes a totally different disgusted noise before turning back to his pile of tools. "What's it say near your armpit? You know, the-"

"Yeah." Bucky lifts his arm up and reads off the numbers laser-cut into the bicep. "Um, Mike November zero four zero seven Lima Alpha, eight two-"

"That's all I need. Also, man,  _please_  be more Army. Jeez."

"You don't like Army?"

"No, it just." Bucky can see Anthony swallow in a way that means he's ... scared. Or remembering being scared. "Let's get started before Steve wakes up and smacks me for breathing too close to you."

**

**

He's supposed to take it off at night, but when Steve asks him to stay over for the first time he can't bring himself to do it. He showers, borrows the toothbrush, washes his face, and stares at himself in the mirror for a few minutes with his right hand hovering over the first latch. Finally he tugs his t-shirt sleeve back down and just walks to the bed, joining Steve and pinning it under his torso. It won't fall asleep. His shoulder will ache tomorrow morning, but it'll be worth it for Steve not to have to see him ... like that.

Steve hums and reaches behind him, finding Bucky's wrist and pulling it over him like a bed sheet. He seems content.

**

**

Steve likes to waste time in the morning, pulling the worn-thin duvet back over Bucky's shoulders when he tries to sit up. grabbing five, ten, fifteen extra minutes of time when he knows Bucky has the day off. Bucky thought he would find it distressing to change his routine, but he can't be anxious. Steve smiles at him under the sheets, thin gold strands in his eyes as he burrows closer, into Bucky's warmth.

They never talk much in the mornings, although Steve will sometimes hum. Bucky drums out the rhythm with his fingers, up and down the notches of Steve's spine, until they drift back to sleep for the second or third time.

**

**

On a bad day, he kneels over the toilet for what feels like an hour, not surprised when Steve finally knocks and comes in.

"Water?" Steve offers quietly.

"Not yet." Bucky rubs his nose, not looking up. "You do this a lot too, don't you?"

Steve doesn't say anything.

"It's just really clean down here," Bucky says, gesturing to the tiles. "Once I started getting sick all the time, I got tired of... kneeling on a dirty floor all the time. Started cleaning the bathroom every damn week because I. I knew I'd be there."

Steve's quiet for a while. "I get sick too," he says finally, and Bucky hears him take a seat on the edge of the tub. As Bucky bends his head a little further, he realizes that's the most information he's offered Steve, unasked for, since they met each other.

**

**

Tony offers to make popcorn while Steve and Bucky look through the movie collection to pick something out.

"Please not that one, I can't watch that actress's face for two hours." Steve nudges a blu-ray case out of the 'maybe' pile.

Bucky frowns. "What's wrong with her?"

"She overacts."

"I don't think so."

Steve narrows his eyes a little, lifting one brow. "You just think she's pretty, don't you?"

"I might," Bucky says, not minding the confession since Steve clearly isn't actually bothered.

Steve wrinkles his nose. "When I said I was fine with an open relationship, I didn't realize you had such terrible taste."

In the kitchen, something metallic clatters to the ground.

"I'm dating  _you_ ," Bucky points out, and then raises his voice: "Tony, do you need help in there?"

"No," Tony yells back, and Bucky frowns and shrugs his shoulders.


End file.
